Jfanmmtrk 

Ktorarfc  (0. 


2012170 


THE  CASE,  LOCK  WOOD  &  BRAINARD  Co. 

HARTFORD 

1910 


TO  JOHN   WHEELER   HARDING 

MY   COMPANION   IN   CAMP  AND  ON   THE  TRAIL 

THIS  LITTLE   BTORY   IB  DEDICATED 


"  By  St.  Nicholas, 

I  have  a  sudden  passion  for  the  wild  wood  — 
We  should  be  free  as  air  in  the  wild  wood  — 
What  say  you?  Shall  we  go?  Your  hands,  your  hands!  " 

—  Robin  Hood. 

"  And  they  shall  dwell  safely  in  the  wilderness  and  sleep  in 
the  woods."  —  Ezekiel. 


THE  CAMP  ON  POCONNUCK. 

(Founded  on  Fact.) 

"  Harry,  your  cap  is  running  off.  See! 
it  is  going  into  the  woods,"  said  George 
Everett  as  the  two  boys  lay  stretched  out 
on  a  bed  of  boughs  before  their  campfire 
on  Indian  Mountain.  Sure  enough  the  cap 
was  in  motion.  It  would  stop  a  few  sec- 
onds, then  start  and  move  rapidly  forward 
as  though  some  bogie  of  the  night  was  in 
it.  The  boys  were  frightened  at  this  phe- 
nomenon they  could  not  explain.  They  were 
brothel's,  Harry  was  seventeen  and  George 
twenty.  It  was  their  vacation,  they  had 
just  finished  their  terms  at  the  high 
school  and  in  the  university  and  had  been 
invited  out  into  the  country  by  their  uncle 
who  lived  at  "  Troutbeck,"  a  break  in  that 
wall  of  the  Taconic  Highlands  which  sep- 
arates New  York  and  Connecticut. 

After  broiling  some  fresh  meat  for  sup- 
per on  sharp  sticks  before  the  fire  they 


had  lain  down  to  rest.  It  was  their  first 
night  in  the  woods  and  their  first  experience  in 
camping  out.  They  had  been  listening  to 
the  whippoorwills  and  were  just  about  to 
fall  asleep  when,  taking  one  last  look 
around  the  camp,  George  saw  his  brother's 
cap  making  off.  "  Get  it  quick,  Harry,  or 
you  will  lose  it.  I  don't  believe  you  dare 
to  touch  it."  A  boy  does  not  like  to  be 
thought  a  coward,  and  though  he  was  un- 
nerved by  the  strange  spectacle  Harry  ran 
rapidly  after  his  cap,  pounced  upon  it  and 
held  it  down  just  as  it  was  disappearing 
under  a  huge  log.  There  was  something 
warm  and  bristly  under  the  cap.  It  was 
no  spirit  or  bogie  of  the  night  but  a  little 
dark  animal  covered  on  the  back  and  tail 
with  mottled  quills,  sharp  as  needles,  which 
he  now  shot  forth  in  rage  and  alarm.  A 
young  porcupine  had  crawled  under  the 
cap  and  when  he  tried  to  get  out  the  cap 
stuck  on  his  quills.  The  boys  examined 
the  little  rodent  carefully.  He  was  not 
large  enough  to  do  much  harm  though  he 
slapped  at  them  angrily  with  his  tail.  The 
quills  were  partly  hidden  in  the  long  thick  hair 
and  each  one  had  a  sharp  barb  at  the  end. 
"  It's  too  bad  to  kill  the  little  fellow, 


Harry,  he  was  camping  out  under  your 
cap.  What  is  that  line  in  your  last  decla- 
mation? O,  I  remember  it  now.  It  is  the 
ghost  in  Hamlet  who  says, 

'  I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul; 
Make  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 
Lik«-   (pulls  upon  the   fretful   porcupine.' 

He's  fretful  enough  anyway." 

The  boys  released  the  porcupine,  which 
quickly  ran  off  into  the  forest.  Then  they 
lay  down  again.  Beyond  the  circle  of  the 
fire  the  forest  was  darker  than  ever  and 
save  for  the  hoot-owls  across  the  lake  the 
night  was  still.  It  was  a  strange  expe- 
rience for  them,  this  loneliness  and  mys- 
tery of  the  woods.  The  night  wind  on  the 
brow  was  like  a  mother's  hand  caressing 
fever.  The  fire  was  almost  out,  gleaming 
only  in  a  few  last  embers.  It  was  nearly  mid- 
night; they  had  fallen  asleep  at  last,  the 
long  deep  sleep  of  the  woods.  Suddenly 
a  blood-curdling  screech  rang  through 
the  forest  and  a  heavy  animal  leaped  from 
a  tree,  landing  with  a  thump  that  almost 
shook  the  ground,  only  a  few  feet  from 
Harry's  head.  The  boys  sprang  to  their 
feet;  they  could  not  see  anything  but  again 

9 


and  again  they  heard  that  screech,  a  wail- 
ing, prolonged,  agonized  scream,  as  though 
a  little  child  was  being  mangled.  For  a 
moment  it  would  cease,  then,  in  the  dim 
dark  forest,  the  silence  of  the  night  would 
be  torn.  The  boys  trembled  and  shook, 
there  was  no  further  sleep  for  them.  Harry 
slipped  a  cartridge  into  his  rifle  and  both 
waited  and  longed  for  the  dawn.  They 
rekindled  the  fire  but  did  not  venture 
into  the  black  circle  beyond  it,  though,  as 
they  looked  around  they  noticed  a  piece 
of  raw  meat  had  disappeared  which  they 
had  carelessly  left. 

In  the  morning  the  boys  went  down  to 
see  old  John  Gilder  who  lived  in  a  shanty 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  They  told 
him  their  story,  said  the  screech  sounded 
like  a  panther's.  "  'Taint  no  panther  but  a 
wildcat, ' '  said  John.  ' l  Them  varmints  comes 
over  from  Pine  Gobble.  The  ledges  around 
Baldwin's  Mill  is  full  on  'em."  John 
Gilder  was  a  character.  A  farmer  let  him 
live  in  his  shanty  on  condition  that  he 
looked  after  the  fences  and  salted  his 
sheep.  John  had  a  peculiar  creed  that  if 
you  took  tobacco  and  whisky  enough  a 
rattlesnake  wouldn't  "  tech  ye."  In  cold 


weather  he  went  into  winter  quarters  like 
the  woodchucks.  Save  for  the  smoke  curl- 
ing from  his  chimney  you  would  never  sus- 
pect that  anyone  lived  in  the  shanty.  He 
whittled  out  ax  helves  and  made  a  few 
baskets  for  a  living  but  was  essentially  an 
Esau,  a  man  of  the  wild.  The  old  hunter 
agreed  to  come  up  after  breakfast  with  his 
dog  and  hunt  the  mountain  over  for  "  the 
varmint."  The  boys  were  in  high  spirits 
notwithstanding  their  loss  of  sleep.  They 
felt  safe  with  John.  Old  Whizzer,  his  fox- 
hound, was  one  of  the  best  dogs  on  the 
border  of  Litchfield  and  Dutchess  counties. 
So  they  set  out  together.  They  had  not 
hunted  long,  in  fact,  had  hardly  begun  to 
climb  the  steep  sides  of  Poconnuck,  when 
old  Whizzer  broke  out  into  a  furious  bay- 
ing. A  long-legged  animal  clearing  ten  feet 
at  a  jump  went  whacking  down  the  pas- 
ture, over  the  bushes  and  through  the  stub- 
ble. "  'Tis  a  jack-rabbit/'  said  Harry. 
"  No,  'taint,"  said  John.  "  They  hunt  them 
fellers  on  Maount  Rigy.  *  Taint  no  jack- 
rabbit  but  a  Belgian  hare.  See  him  leg  it. 
Putter,  old  feller.  You're  obliged  ter  have 
ter.  Whizzer  is  arter  ye."  Just  then  the 
boys  saw  a  cunning  piece  of  strategy.  The 


hare  ran  through  an  opening  in  a  wall  and 
instantly  reversed  his  course  before  the 
yelping  hound  saw  him.  Old  Whizzer  tore 
into  the  hayfield,  going  so  fast  he  couldn't 
stop,  and  when  he  looked  around  Mr.  Hare 
was  not  to  be  seen.  It  was  curious  to 
behold  the  dog's  crestfallen  look  as  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  field  he  vainly  sniffed 
the  air.  "  Find  him,  Whizzer!  "  yelled 
John.  Old  Whizzer  was  no  shepherd  dog 
to  follow  only  with  his  eyes.  He  came  back  to 
the  opening  and  with  his  nose  to  the 
ground  soon  had  the  trail  again.  He  now 
gained  so  rapidly  that  the  hare  ran  to 
cover.  "  'Bliged  ter  have  ter,"  said  John. 
"  Whizzer 's  holed  him." 

Although  the  boys  hunted  the  entire 
mountain  over  that  morning  they  could  find 
no  trace  of  the  animal  which  had  fright- 
ened them  in  the  night.  After  dinner 
Uncle  Dick  came  to  camp.  The  boys  were 
glad  to  see  him,  especially  George.  It  was 
agreed  that  Harry  and  John  Gilder  should 
continue  the  hunt  that  day  while  George 
and  Uncle  Dick  kept  together.  Of  the  two 
brothers  George  had  the  deeper  nature. 
He  was  very  fond  of  history  and  German. 
On  the  contrary  outdoor  life  appealed  to 


Harry,  who  had  read  Paul  du  Chaillu  and 
the  hunting  adventures  of  President  Roose- 
velt with  the  greatest  avidity.  Their  uncle 
was  very  glad  to  have  the  boys  visit  him 
at  this  time,  for  his  wife  had  recently  died. 
"  Why  is  this  mountain  called  Poconnuck?  " 
said  George,  after  they  had  walked  awhile 
together.  "  Some  call  it  Poconnuck  and 
some  Indian  Mountain,"  said  his  uncle. 
"  There  were  two  Indian  villages  at  its 
foot.  The  larger,  on  the  western  side,  was 
Wequadnach,  which  means  "  extending  to 
the  mountain."  Poconnuck  'is  a  word 
which  has  different  spellings  and  is  the 
name  of  six  places  in  Connecticut.  It 
means  "  cleared  land,"  land  from  which  the 
trees  and  bushes  have  been  removed  so  as 
to  fit  it  for  cultivation.  "  Poconnuck  was 
the  corn  land  of  the  Indians."  "  What 
Indians  lived  here?  "  "  Mohicans,  the  same 
tribe  as  those  at  Stockbridge  to  whom  Jon- 
athan Edwards  preached."  "  What  is  that 
monument  out  in  the  field  by  the  lake?  " 
"  That  is  the  Moravian  Monument,"  said 
his  uncle.  "  It  has  a  more  thrilling  story 
than  the  Haystack  at  Williamstown.  The 
heart  of  Bruce  is  buried  under  it,  David  Bruce, 
one  of  the  Moravian  Brethren  who  died  here 
13 


among  his  Indian  converts.  The  Indians 
loved  him  so  that  they  wrapped  his  body 
in  white  and  rowed  it  on  two  canoes  across 
the  lake  to  their  place  of  burial  under  the 
sighing  pines.  Bruce  was  the  first  Mora- 
vian to  be  buried  among  the  hills  and  val- 
leys of  New  England.  The  mission  station 
was  on  the  other  side.  The  Brethren  called 
the  lake,  Gnadensee,  the  Lake  of  Grace. 
There  is  no  other  name  like  it  in  our 
country.  I  know  of  none  in  the  world.  It 
is  the  speech  of  the  Fatherland  in  the  blue 
Saxon  mountains  beyond  the  sea."  "  What 
others  came  here?  "  "  Baron  John  deWat- 
teville,  Bishop  Cammerhof  an  alumnus  of 
the  University  of  Jena,  and  some  of  hum- 
bler birth.  They  were  princely  souls,  all  of 
them.  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table  had  no 
such  knights  as  these."  "  Was  there  no 
woman  saint  among  them?  "  "  Yes,  the 
Countess  Benigna."  "  What!  a  real  live 
countess?  "  "  Yes,  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
She  is  no  fictitious  character  but  has  been 
here  upon  its  '  silver  strand.'  That  was 
in  1748.  She  was  the  oldest  daughter  of 
Count  Zinzendorf  and  heiress  of  the  manor. 
The  Count's  family  was  very  old,  running 
back  in  Austria  for  twenty  generations. 


The  Zinzendorfs  stood  close  to  the  Emperor, 
but  the  Countess  gave  up  every  worldly 
honor  that  she  might  come  to  America  with 
her  father.  She  accompanied  him  on  horse- 
back on  his  second  visit  to  the  Indian 
country.  I  can  see  them  now  making  their 
way  through  the  wilderness  and  tangled 
swamps  of  the  New  World.  They  crossed 
the  Hudson  at  Esopus  and  Rhinebeck. 
When  I  go  there  in  the  spring  to  see  the 
fisherman  seine  the  shad  I  always  think  of 
the  Countess."  "  Uncle  Dick,  I  have  read 
that  Zinzendorf  only  came  as  far  as  Sheko- 
meko,  so  the  Countess  didn't  come  to  Gnad- 
ensee  after  all."  "Yes,  she  did,  but  that 
was  later,  six  years  later.  You  see  she 
had  married  John  deWatteville  in  the  mean- 
time, her  father's  private  secretary."  "  I 
thought  the  Moravians  got  their  wives  by 
lot,"  said  George.  "  So  they  did,  my  boy, 
but  John  deWatteville  got  his  by  love.  He 
loved  Benigna  from  the  first  and  had  every 
opportunity  to  know  her.  They  married 
for  love,  but  they  married  in  the  Lord. 
When  they  came  to  the  Lake  of  Grace  it 
was  their  wedding  journey  prolonged;  they 
wanted  to  cheer  and  strengthen  the  dis- 
couraged Indian  mission.  Benigna 's  hus- 
15 


band  was  a  bishop  of  the  Moravian  Church 
and  his  wife  was  a  Countess."  "  Uncle 
Dick,  I  saw  a  countess  at  Newport  last 
summer.  She  had  a  long  German  name; 
there  were  diamonds  in  her  hair,  but  she 
didn't  care  much  about  camping  out  or 
visiting  Indian  missions.  By  the  way, 
hadn't  the  Countess  Benigna  some  younger 
sisters?  "  "  Yes,  Agnes  and  Elizabeth,  too 
old  for  you,  George.  Splendid  girls  they 
were.  Why,  Count  Zinzendorf's  daughters 
sacrificed  their  possessions  to  pay  their 
father's  debts,  let  the  old  manor  go  to  raise 
money  for  the  church.  They  weren't  for- 
tune hunters  like  their  modern  relatives, 
whose  trunks  you  see  in  the  hotels  at  Palm 
Beach  and  Narragansett  Pier  and  who  have 
added  this  command  to  the  decalogue, 
Thou  shalt  not  be  poor." 

The  afternoon  wore  pleasantly  away. 
George  and  his  uncle  had  come  out  on 
the  ledges  where  there  was  a  fine  view  of 
the  lake.  His  uncle  told  him  a  long  story 
of  how  the  Moravians  finding  some  drunken 
Indians  in  Manhattan  had  followed  them  to 
their  forest  villages  in  these  parts  and  then 
how  saintly  souls  like  Bruce  and  Benigna 
with  the  authorities  at  Bethlehem  had 

16 


established  mission  stations  at  Shekomeko, 
Wequadnach,  and  at  Pachgatgoch  on  the 
Housatonic. 

It  was  now  the  hour  of  sunset,  a  time  for 
reverie  and  dreams.  The  golden  glory  of 
the  dying  day  burnished  the  still  surface  of 
the  water;  rapidly  the  warm  rich  hues  were 
fading  from  the  sky.  The  campers  looked 
down  in  silence  upon  the  monument  and 
the  shining  levels  of  the  lake.  It  was  the 
Abenddunkel  of  the  Moravians.  Over  the 
dewy  meadows  sounded  afar  the  village  bells 
calling  the  faithful  to  prayer.  The  deep 
tones  of  the  clock-tower  on  Sharon  Street 
were  like  a  monk's  compline  hymn.  "  Uncle 
Dick,  is  there  any  way  of  preserving  this 
beautiful  name,  Gnadenseef  You  say  there 
is  no  other  like  it  in  all  the  world." 

"  The  name  is  not  very  familiar,  George. 
The  boundary  line  of  Connecticut  and  New 
York  runs  through  the  center  of  the  lake, 
but  so  far  the  people  in  both  these  states  have 
been  ignorant  or  indifferent  about  the 
name.  It  was  in  Moravian  archives  and 
writings  that  I  found  it.  I  think  fel- 
lows like  you  and  Harry  who  study 
German  ought  to  hand  on  the  name. 
Poconnuck  and  Ghiadensee  must  not  be 

2  17 


lost."  "  Tell  me  some  more  about  the 
Moravians,  Uncle.  What  were  their  habits 
and  customs'?  " 

"  Well,  George,  that  is  a  long  story. 
They  were  a  simple-hearted  Christian 
people  who  in  their  life  imitated  the  Apos- 
tles, having  all  things  in  common.  They 
were  very  industrious  and  sang  at  their 
work.  One  of  their  bishops  wrote  hymns 
for  the  spinning  sisters.  In  their  settle- 
ments, scattered  up  and  down  the  world, 
they  observe  the  German  custom  of  salut- 
ing at  meals.  "  Erne  gesegnete  Mdhlzeit!  " 
and  <f  Ich  wunsche  wohl  gespeist  zu  ha- 
ben! "  say  the  host  and  hostess  as  they 
give  you  a  cordial  right  hand.  Their 
Gemuthlichkeit,  or  friendly  good  time  is 
not  sitting  down  in  a  beer-garden  before 
schooners  of  lager  to  listen  to  strains  from 
Beethoven  and  Wagner  but  a  simple  warm- 
hearted joy  in  the  Lord  over  buns  and 
coffee."  "  How  do  they  court  and  marry?  " 
asked  George.  "  Formerly  they  used  the 
sacred  lot  in  deciding  all  important  matters 
and  even  chose  their  wives  in  that  way, 
though  now  they  use  more  worldly  methods." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea  for  theologs,"  said 
Uncle  Dick,  with  a  sly  wink  at  his  nephew. 
it 


"  A  minister  of  the  gospel  should  not  marry 
a  butterfly  or  wed  a  fashion  plate  but  let 
the  Lord  decide  it." 

"  But  the  Moravians  won't  fight/'  said 
George.  "  Theodore  Roosevelt  says  every 
patriot  ought  to  have  a  fighting  edge." 

"  No,  George,  the  Moravians  were  con- 
scientiously opposed  to  warfare.  They  have 
been  blamed  for  not  fighting  in  our  Revo- 
lution, but  in  Bethlehem,  Pennsylvania, 
within  *  Colonial  Hall,'  now  used  by  them 
as  a  girls'  seminary,  five  hundred  Revolu- 
tionary soldiers  died.  Moravian  sisters 
have  always  been  a  kind  of  Red  Cross 
annex  to  the  army."  "  Did  not  the  Nuns 
of  Bethlehem  consecrate  Pulaski's  Banner, 
as  Longfellow  sings?  "  "  No  George,  that 
is  entirely  legendary  and  opposed  to  their 
tenets."  "  Have  the  Moravians  no  love 
for  the  Fatherland?  "  "  Yes,  but  it  is  not 
a  furious  fighting  passion.  I  once  spent  a 
night  at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine.  Across  the 
river  was  the  colossal  bronze  statue  of  Ger- 
mania  designed  to  keep  alive  the  fires  of 
patriotism  by  commemorating  the  German 
victories  in  the  Franco-Prussian  war.  Stroll- 
ing out  on  the  promenade  that  evening 
I  heard  some  German  students  singing 

«9 


1  The  Watch  on  the  Rhine.'  It  was  thrill- 
ing and  stirred  the  blood.  Across  the  his- 
toric stream,  sung  by  deep,  strong  voices, 
were  borne  the  words, 

"Best,  Fatherland,  for  sons  of  thine 

Shall  steadfast  keep  the  "  W  adit  am  Rhine" 

but  George,  I   like  Zinzendorf's  hymn   bet- 
ter."   "What  is  it,  Uncle?" 
'  Jesu,  geh  voran.' 

'  Jesus,  still  lead  on, 
Till  our  rest  be  won; 

And  although  the  way  be  cheerless, 

We  will  follow,  calm  and  fearless; 
Guide  us  by  thy  hand 
To  our  Fatherland/ 

That  sentiment  is  better  than  any  martial 
song  that  was  ever  written.  I  prefer  it  to 
the  Marseillaise  or  the  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner. Patriotism  is  a  selfish  thing  until  it 
receives  a  Christian  baptism.  The  highest, 
finest  patriotism  is  the  Moravian's."  Here 
a  sudden  crashing  through  the  brush  inter- 
rupted their  conversation. 

"  Uncle  Dick!  Uncle  Dick!"  shouted  Harry, 
"  what  are  you  and  George  doing  out  there, 
killing  mosquitos?  John  Gilder  and  I  got 
back  to  camp  an  hour  ago.  Come  back 


and  have  some  supper.  The  fire  is  blazing, 
the  coffee  is  boiling  and  I  have  made  a 
great  discovery.  Get  a  move  on  you  and 
come  along."  When  they  reached  camp, 
George  found  that  Harry  had  much  to  tell 
about  his  afternoon  with  John  Gilder. 
They  had  hunted  all  over  the  mountain 
and  even  gone  over  on  Mount  Riga.  The 
old  hunter  had  there  found  a  rare  shrub. 
It  was  the  rhododendron,  very  abundant 
in  the  southern  Appalachians  but  extremely 
rare  so  far  north  as  this.  It  was  the  same 
as  that  sought  after  by  the  English  gentry 
for  their  country  estates.  "  I  once  saw  an 
acre  of  them  growing  around  Lord  Ban- 
try's  shooting-lodge,"  said  Uncle  Dick. 
"  That  was  in  the  mountains  of  Ireland, 
near  Glengariff.  I  had  walked  up  with  my 
friend  one  Sunday  afternoon.  Boys,  don't 
tell  any  one  that  you  found  this  rhododendron, 
or  the  city  people  will  come  and  get  it  for 
their  lawns."  Here  Harry  could  contain 
himself  no  longer  but  brought  out  an  arm- 
ful of  treasures  he  had  found  in  a  cave 
on  Poconnuck.  There  was  the  frontal  bone 
of  a  stag,  the  jaw  and  teeth  of  some  large 
animal,  pieces  of  tortoise  shell  and  speci- 
mens of  broken  pottery,  very  fragile  but 


showing  considerable  skill  and  a  genuine  love 
of  beauty.  His  uncle,  who  had  the  finest 
collection  of  Indian  relics  in  the  county, 
with  a  banner-stone  from  the  Mound  Builders, 
said,  after  a  careful  examination,  that 
Harry's  treasures  were  real  Indian  relics  and 
very  valuable,  left  by  the  Indians  who  lived 
here  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Harry 
had  other  stories  to  tell.  They  had  located 
a  bee-tree  and  found  a  fox-burrow.  John 
Gilder  had  showed  him  how  to  make  barrel 
hoops  out  of  hickory  saplings  and  prepare 
a  bean-hole  for  the  camp. 

The  next  morning  broke  bright  and  clear. 
From  the  top  of  Poconnuck,  which  they 
had  climbed  for  the  sunrise,  the  boys 
counted  six  lakes.  Three  states  met  up 
there,  New  York,  Connecticut  and  Massa- 
chusetts, and  looming  on  the  sky-line  was 
the  long  ragged  range  of  the  Catskills. 

After  breakfast  Uncle  Dick  proposed 
that  they  should  row  across  the  lake,  tak- 
ing the  very  course,  though  in  an  opposite 
direction,  which  the  Indian  canoes  had 
taken  when  they  bore  the  body  of  Bruce 
across  for  burial.  Landing  in  a  cove  of 
lilies,  where  the  wild  deer  were  feeding  but 
which  the  law  forbade  them  to  shoot,  they 


moored  their  boat  while  Uncle  Dick  led  the 
boys  through  the  fields  to  a  cemetery  in 
an  apple  orchard.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  was 
the  site  of  the  old  Moravian  mission. 
Here  James  Powell,  another  of  the  Breth- 
ren, was  buried.  He  wanted  to  find  the 
'  Bruce-places  -  'tis  '  Bruce-platten  '  in 
the  German  —  and  so  came  here  later.  On 
opposite  sides  of  the  Lake  of  Grace  the 
missionaries  rest,  but  their  names  are 
carved  on  the  same  monument,  the  only 
Moravian  monument  in  New  England. 
They  had  gone  as  you  sing  in  the  Chris- 
tian Endeavor  hymnal,  '  over  mountain  or 
plain  or  sea.'  You  know  the  Moravian 
was  the  minute-man  of  the  Lord's  army. 
He  was  a  free  knight  of  the  Lord,  '  Ein 
freier  Knecht  des  Herrn.' ' 

"  Uncle  Dick,  tell  me  more  about  the 
Countess.  I  prefer  her  to  those  Brethren  who 
wouldn't  fight."  "  Well,  George,  she  was  a 
great  traveler.  In  addition  to  these  visits  into 
the  Indian  country  first  with  her  father 
and  later  with  her  husband,  she  crossed 
and  recrossed  the  Atlantic  many  times.  I 
will  read  you  what  I  copied  out  of  a  Mo- 
ravian diary;  you  will  find  it  in  the 
archives  of  the  Brethren's  Church  at  Beth- 


lehem,  Pennsylvania.  It  is  from  the  orig- 
inal German."  Here  Uncle  Dick  produced 
a  crumpled  bit  of  paper  and  read,  "  They 
took  ship  at  Amsterdam.  A  series  of 
storms  set  in  —  they  steered  for  the  West 
Indies.  Watte ville  and  his  wife  lived  for 
weeks  on  hard  biscuit  and  beer.  They  at 
last  reached  the  West  Indies,  but  the  vessel 
struck  a  reef  off  the  island  of  Barbuda  and 
was  lost.  The  passengers  and  crew  took  to 
the  boats.  In  descending  Bishop  de  Watte- 
ville  missed  his  hold  and  fell  into  the  sea. 
He  was  rescued  by  two  sailors  with  great 
difficulty.  After  many  escapes  the  entire 
ship's  company  reached  the  land.  The 
Governor  of  Barbuda  took  Bishop  de 
Watteville  and  the  Countess  into  his  own 
house  and  showed  them  great  kindness. 
They  had  been  on  ship-board  one  hundred 
and  forty-four  days  and  suffered  intensely." 
"  That  voyage  of  the  Countess  makes  me 
think  of  our  last  Sunday-school  lesson 
when  St.  Paul  was  wrecked  at  Malta," 
George  said.  "  Yes,  her  husband's  official 
position  in  the  Moravian  Church  required 
a  continual  supervision  of  the  missions. 
The  bishop  and  the  Countess  went  together. 
They  had  all  sorts  of  adventures,  were 


in   perils   in   the   wilderness   and    perils    in 
the  sea." 

As  the  boat  rounded  a  point  of  land 
Harry's  quick  eye  detected  a  camp  in  the 
pines  with  this  sign  over  the  door,  "  Home 
for  Aged  Women."  "  There's  where  the 
Countess  boarded  and  slept,  I  suppose." 
There  was  also  a  fac-simile  in  birch  bark  of  a 
large  bass  which  had  been  taken  from  the 
lake.  Later  the  boys  caught  several  more. 
After  a  swim  in  the  lake  the  three  re- 
crossed  to  the  monument  on  the  Sharon 
shore.  As  the  campers  sat  around  the  fire 
that  evening  Harry  said,  "  it  seemed  a  pity 
that  the  Moravians,  only,  should  have  a 
monument."  He  proposed  that  one  should 
be  erected  on  Poconnuck  also,  for  the 
Indians,  a  bronze  statue  of  Nequitimaug, 
that  chief  who  ruled  over  the  tribe  whose 
relics  he  had  found  in  the  cave.  Why 
shouldn't  an  Indian  mountain  like  Pocon- 
nuck have  a  statue  just  as  well  as  a 
tobacco  store?  A  bronze  Indian  silhouetted 
against  the  sky  and  looking  off  on  the  land 
his  fathers  owned  before  the  white  man 
came,  would  be  so  fitting  and  proper  that 
it  was  strange  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
it. 


The  next  day  Uncle  Dick  proposed  that 
they  should  all  climb  Poconnuck  and  eat 
their  lunch  up  there.  They  did  so.  From 
the  ledges  and  splintered  crags  he  showed 
the  boys  the  striking  points  in  the  land- 
scape. To  the  north  was  Mount  Riga, 
named  by  some  charcoal  burners  from 
France  and  the  Swiss  Cantons.  They  had 
transferred  the  name  of  their  own  Rigi, 
looking  off  on  the  Bernese  Overland,  to 
this  American  mountain.  Here  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  in  one  of  the  old  iron 
furnaces  was  forged  a  chain  which  had 
been  stretched  across  the  Hudson  in  the 
Revolution  to  impede  the  progress  of  the 
British  ships.  "  On  Mount  Riga,"  Uncle 
Dick  said,  "  was  also  the  only  piece  of  vir- 
gin forest  yet  left  in  Connecticut."  To  the 
south  of  Poconnuck  lay  the  green  Web- 
utuck  valley,  the  granary  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, while  to  the  west  stretched  the  long 
billowing  ranges  which  stopped  only  at  the 
Hudson. 

Uncle  Dick  was  especially  eloquent  in 
praise  of  Sharon  Street,  whose  line  of  ver- 
dure, enfolding  the  churches  and  clock- 
tower,  they  could  plainly  make  out. 

Here   a  discussion   arose   as  to   the   com- 

36 


parative  beauty  of  some  far-famed  New 
England  streets.  The  boys  had  come  from 
Longmeadow  and  naturally  gave  that  the 
preeminence.  Uncle  Dick  was  too  courte- 
ous to  openly  dispute  their  claim.  Several 
streets  he  admitted  had  strong  points  in 
their  favor.  Old  Hadley  was  the  cord  of 
a  silver  bow,  that  bow  being  the  winding 
and  willow-fringed  Connecticut.  Old  Say- 
brook  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  with 
lighthouse  and  breakwater,  had  murmurs 
and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea  as  it  guarded 
Lady  Fenwick's  tomb.  Longmeadow  had 
glimpses  of  Mount  Tom  and  the  Holyoke 
Range,  a  great  width  of  common  with 
the  river  below  whose  spring  freshets  drove 
out  the  early  settlers  from  the  alluvial  to 
the  bluffs  above,  but  Sharon  was  of  loftier 
altitude  than  all  the  others.  There  was  a 
rim  of  distant  mountains.  No  pent-up 
town  contracted  your  powers  or  limited 
the  vision.  You  looked  off  through  airy 
spaces,  miles  and  leagues  of  air,  like  an 
aviator  were  tempted  to  fly  and  soar. 
Dawn  and  sunset  in  Sharon  had  their 
Ruskin  colors,  the  rose-purples  of  the  Swit- 
zer's  mountains.  The  village  was  not  set 
in  a  plain  and  had  not  been  commercialized 


by  the  trolley.  Clinging  to  the  shoulder  of 
the  long  Taconic  ridges  it  hung  suspended 
midway  between  crest  and  stream.  In  sum- 
mer it  had  the  verdure  of  Ireland  and  in 
winter  the  air  and  sports  of  Canada.  You 
should  see  it  in  the  spring  when  the  lilac 
hedges  are  in  bloom.  "  Harry,  it  would 
transform  you  from  a  sportsman  into  a 
poet."  "Yes,"  replied  Harry,  "that's 
what  the  Irishman  said  about  his  mother 
tongue:  if  you  could  only  speak  Irish  you 
would  be  a  poet  and  sing  of  Tipperary  in 
the  spring." 

George  doubted,  however,  if  Sharon  had 
the  historical  importance  of  these  other  vil- 
lages. Hadle)r  had  sheltered  the  regicides, 
and  Saybrook  possessed  the  site  of  the  Old 
Fort,  and  the  original  location  of  Yale 
University.  Longmeadow  was  coeval  with 
Springfield  and  had  its  thrilling  chapter  of 
Indian  wars  when  King  Philip  was  the 
settler's  terror.  Here  Uncle  Dick  bravely 
came  to  the  defense  of  his  favorite  village. 
In  a  stone  chateau  was  a  painting  by  Ben- 
jamin West  of  "  Christ  Healing  the  Sick  " 
he  said;  an  eighteenth  century  house  con- 
tained an  appeal  to  Congress  by  a  general 
of  the  Revolution  for  the  pay  his  services 
28 


had  merited  but  never  received.  Some  of 
the  older  people  could  locate  the  very  spot 
on  the  village  green  where  Whitefield  once 
preached.  A  modest  woman  who  would  not 
reveal  the  fact,  left  among  her  papers  a 
genealogy  of  Huguenot  ancestors  which  any 
peer  might  envy.  The  type  of  the  street 
was  that  tract  of  land  which,  in  the  mid- 
dle ages,  belonged  to  a  community  of  free- 
men, and  was  known  as  the  mark,  or 
common.  Uncle  Dick  was  very  fond  of  re- 
calling what  Tacitus  had  found  among  our 
ancestors  in  the  forests  of  Germany.  He 
said  the  old  New  England  custom  of  turn- 
ing the  pigs,  geese  and  cattle  loose  upon 
the  street  was  a  survival  of  that  ancient, 
communal  ownership.  George  and  Harry 
became  greatly  interested  in  his  narrative. 
Here  on  Sharon  Street  was  the  "  Old 
Stone  House  "  where  British  officers  had 
been  lodged  as  prisoners  of  war  after  Bur- 
goyne's  surrender.  Down  this  road  Hes- 
sian troops  had  marched  singing  Luther's 
hymn,  '  Em'  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott ',  as 
Governor  Smith  remembered  when  a  boy. 
This  border  country  was  the  meeting  place 
of  different  races.  Here  came  the  Dutch, 
the  French  Huguenots,  the  Palatines,  the 


Puritans  and  the  Moravians.  The  Indians 
were  here.  They  had  vanished  but  left 
-their  language.  So  long  as  the  streams  are 
musical  and  the  breezes  whisper,  so  long 
will  the  American  love  the  tongue  of  his 
Fatherland.  Down  the  mountain  side  to 
the  north  of  Poconnuck  there  tumbled  a 
stream  which  Harry  and  John  Gilder  had 
seen  on  their  long  hunt  together.  Wacho- 
castinook  was  its  Indian  name,  which 
means,  falling  water.  Like  the  Jordan  it 
is  the  descender,  and  rushes  down  to 
Salisbury  in  a  succession  of  waterfalls. 
At  this  point  an  eagle  was  seen  sail- 
ing over  Poconnuck.  Harry,  who  had  his 
Winchester  with  him,  now  slipped  away, 
hurrying  through  the  scrub  and  over  the 
ledges  for  the  best  possible  shot. 

George  improved  this  half  hour  of  his 
brother's  absence  to  get  some  further  infor- 
mation from  his  uncle  which  their  recent 
conversation  had  called  forth.  "  Uncle 
Dick,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  more  about 
these  Indian  names  like  Poconnuck  and 
Wachocastinook.  They  are  strangely  fas- 
cinating." 

Indian  names,  yes. 

There  are  some  of  them  left  and  very 
30 


precious  they  are.  They  are  "  The  Last 
of  the  Mohicans,"  literally  so,  but  a  sym- 
phony of  poetry  and  music. 

These  Indians  of  Litchfield  County  were 
a  branch  of  the  great  Algonquin  family 
which  occupied  all  of  New  England  when 
it  was  discovered  and  whose  area  on  the 
North  American  continent  was  more  exten- 
sive than  that  of  any  other  ethnic  stock. 
The  language  was  Mohican  or  Mohegan. 

If  we  desire  to  know  just  what  dialect 
was  spoken  by  the  Indians  of  the  Housa- 
tonic  valley  we  have  the  "  Observations  on 
the  Language  of  the  Muhhekaneew  Indians  " 
by  the  younger  Edwards.  He  grew  up 
with  them  as  a  boy,  loved  the  language, 
thought  in  it,  until,  as  he  says,  it  became 
more  familiar  to  him  than  his  mother 
tongue.  The  language  spoken  in  the  Indian 
villages  at  Stockb  ridge,  Kent  and  New 
Milford  was  the  same  as  that  at  Pocon- 
nuck,  and  though  it  is  lost  now  and  must 
forever  be  a  dead  language  it  was  the  true 
American  accent.  It  was  a  language  that 
made  men  saints  or  sinners.  John  Eliot 
and  the  two  Edwards  became  saints  with 
it,  but  Cotton  Mather,  the  pages  of  whose 
Magnolia  are  studded  with  pompous  ver- 
31 


bosity  and  pedantic  Latin,  lost  his  temper 
when  he  came  to  Mohegan.  He  says,  "  But 
if  their  language  be  short  I  am  sure  the 
words  composed  of  it  are  long  enough  to 
tire  the  patience  of  any  scholar  in  the 
world;  one  would  think  they  had  been 
growing  ever  since  Babel."  He  cites  the 
case  of  a  young  woman  possessed  by  de- 
mons, who  understood  his  Latin,  Greek  and 
Hebrew,  but  when  the  learned  divine  tried  Mo- 
hegan on  them  even  the  devils  couldn't  under- 
stand him.  Wachocastinook  is  a  very 
pretty  name  as  you  see  but  the  Naromi- 
yocknowhusunkatankshunk  brook  which  en- 
ters the  Housatonic  near  Gaylordsville  is 
not  so  conducive  to  poetry  and  requires  a 
course  in  lingual  athletics  before  you  can 
master  it. 

One  thing  is  true  of  all  Indian  words, 
however,  they  describe  the  locality  with 
great  vividness.  They  are  the  Thoreaus  of 
human  speech. 

"  Uncle  Dick,  I  also  noticed  that  in 
speaking  of  Sharon,  a  little  while  ago,  you 
called  it  the  border  country.  I've  heard 
you  say  that  Poconnuck  is  a  mountain  on 
the  border."  "  Yes,"  said  his  uncle,  "we 
are  in  Litchfield  County,  Connecticut,  up 
32 


here  on  the  summit  of  Poconnuck.  If 
you  care  to  hear  about  it  I  have  an  article 
prepared  for  a  local  paper  which  I  will 
read.  It  is  on  The  Litchfield  Border. " 
George  signified  at  once  his  willingness  and 
stretched  himself  out  on  a  mat  of  mountain 
cranberry  while  his  uncle  read,  in  the 
pauses  of  the  wind,  from  his  manuscript. 

THE  LITCHFIELD  BORDER. 

By  the  Litchfield  Border  we  mean  the 
western  boundary  of  the  country  and  the 
state.  The  borders  of  Connecticut  have 
always  been  difficult  to  locate.  By  the  con- 
quest of  the  Pequots,  Connecticut  claimed 
all  the  land  up  to  Narragansett  Bay,  so 
that  Rhode  Island  became  a  non-entity. 
Rufus  Choate,  referring  to  the  difficulties 
of  the  commissioners  in  fixing  the  eastern 
boundary,  once  said,  "  the  line  between  the 
states  was  bounded  on  the  north  by  a 
bramble  bush,  on  the  south  by  a  blue  jay, 
on  the  west  by  a  hive  of  bees  in  swarming 
time  and  on  the  east  by  five  hundred  foxes 
with  firebrands  tied  to  their  tails."  So 
much  for  Connecticut's  eastern  border,  but 
the  western,  or  Litchfield  one,  was  even 
more  indefinite.  The  charter  of  Charles 

3  33 


II.,  under  which  the  people  lived  up  to 
1818,  gave  to  Connecticut  all  the  land 
"  from  Narragansett  Bay  on  the  east  to 
the  South  Sea  on  the  west  part  with 
the  islands  thereunto  adjoining."  Charles, 
though  a  mean  king,  was  not  mean  with 
his  charter,  since  it  gave  Connecticut  a 
strip  of  land  seventy  miles  wide  and 
extending  one-eighth  of  the  distance 
round  the  globe.  This  charter  of  Charles 
II.,  dated  in  1662,  gave  us  a  claim 
to  lands  in  Ohio,  known  as  the  Connecticut 
Western  Reserve,  from  the  sale  of  which 
has  come  a  part  of  our  present  school 
fund.  The  western  or  Litchfield  border 
has  always  been  different  from  the  eastern 
in  speech,  customs,  diet,  money,  religion 
and  race.  The  influence  and  nearness  of 
New  York  State  accounts  largely  for  it. 
Some  familiar  examples  may  be  noted:  the 
minister  is  called  The  Dominie;  you  are 
out  of  the  zone  of  pies,  baked  beans  and 
clambakes;  your  landlady  will  ask  you  at 
breakfast  if  you  will  have  some  supawn, 
a  Dutch  word  never  heard  in  transcen- 
dental and  classic  Boston. 

A  shilling  in  New  York  has  less  units  of 
value   than    one   in    Connecticut,    while    our 


34 


town  government  and  little  local  democra- 
cies all  stop  at  the  state  line.  In  Litchfield 
County  we  call  the  official  who  tests  and 
validates  a  will  a  Judge  of  Probate,  but 
over  the  border  he  is  a  Surrogate.  David 
Harum  could  trade  horses  or  surrogate  an 
enemy  with  equal  ease,  you  will  remember. 

The  Litchfield  Border  is  marked  by  a 
peculiar  geological  formation,  being  under- 
bedded  with  limestone.  You  have  left  the 
granite  areas  with  their  stone  walls  and 
boulders  brought  down  by  the  ice-cap  to 
come  into  a  region  covered  with  the  green- 
est turf,  a  dairy  country  which  the  mea- 
dows of  Holland  and  the  pastures  of  Swit- 
zerland cannot  surpass.  The  wind-swept 
hilltops  have  been  softened,  there  is  an 
amiability  and  lovability  in  the  landscape; 
the  early  settlers  named  one  border  town, 
Amenia,  the  friendly. 

The  general  absence  of  water  power  has 
made  this  region  to  be  much  frequented 
by  those  who  drive  for  pleasure.  You  are 
quite  reconciled  to  that  loss  of  industrial- 
ism and  severe  commercial  stamp  which 
gives  such  importance  to  the  valley  of  the 
Naugatuck.  Here  on  the  border  you  are 
isolated  from  the  many-windowed  factories 

35 


and  smoking  chimneys.  The  roads,  firm 
and  hard,  go  under  the  shaggy  shoulders 
of  the  mountain;  along  foaming  brooks 
bordered  with  dark  hemlock  and  pink 
laurel,  past  farms  of  intervale,  fair  as  the 
pastorals  of  Virgil.  The  " hollow,"  a  char- 
acteristic word  in  the  border  country,  brings 
you  out  to  villages  perfectly  finished, 
dropped  down  with  their  lawns  and  ter- 
races into  a  pocket  of  the  everlasting  hills. 
Anon  you  climb  up  to  the  granite  zone 
above  the  limestone  to  see  the  ragged  line 
of  the  Catskills  burnished  by  the  sunset 
and  the  flash  of  the  evening  lamps  in  the 
hotels.  This  is  all  to  the  west;  the  eastern 
passes  let  you  down  to  the  Housatonic  with 
its  loops  and  reaches,  the  river  road  follow- 
ing the  course  of  the  stream,  its  feet  liter- 
ally in  the  rapid  water.  North  through 
the  gates  of  Berkshire,  east  to  Litchfield, 
the  county  seat,  west  over  the  line  into 
Dutchess  or  south  to  Dover  there  is  as  fine 
a  driving  country  as  can  be  asked  for  and 
you  will  rarely  cross  a  railroad  track.  It  is 
the  border,  the  borderland  of  Connecticut, 
these  Taconic  highlands  being  the  rampart 
where  three  great  states  come  together  and 
set  up  their  banners. 
36 


This  border  country  is  haunted  by  mem- 
ories of  the  Revolution.  During  that  strug- 
gle one  of  the  great  military  lines  of  the 
patriot  army  stretched  across  it.  After  the 
battle  of  Monmouth,  in  1778,  the  east  wing 
of  Washington's  army  was  distributed  in 
winter  cantonments  from  West  Point  to 
Danbury.  Washington  and  Lafayette  were 
both  at  Quaker  Hill  and  the  old  Friends' 
Meeting  House  was  a  hospital  for  sick  and 
wounded  soldiers.  In  the  journal  of  the 
Marquis  De  Chastellux,  that  rare  book 
entitled,  "  Travels  in  North  America  in 
the  years  1780,  1781  and  1782,"  the  Mar- 
quis says  he  crossed  the  Housatonic  at 
"  Bull's  Iron  Works  "  (now  Bull's  Bridge), 
and  adds,  "  We  soon  met  with  another, 
called  Ten  Mile  River,  which  falls  into  this, 
and  which  we  followed  for  two  or  three 
miles,  and  then  came  in  sight  of  several 
handsome  houses  forming  a  part  of  the 
district  called  "The  Oblong."  He  was 
going  to  "  Morehouse  Tavern,"  that  famous 
hostelry  of  the  Revolutionary  period.  It 
was  difficult  to  get  lodgings,  as  rooms  and 
beds  had  all  been  taken  by  some  New 
Hampshire  farmers  who  were  driving  oxen 
through  to  the  patriot  army  at  Fishkill, 

37 


but  when  they  knew  that  a  French  general 
with  his  aides-de-camp  had  arrived,  the 
gallant  Marquis  had  the  pick  of  the  rooms. 
Two  years  later  De  Chastellux  passed 
through  here  again  on  his  way  from  New- 
port to  the  headquarters  of  Washington  at 
Newburgh.  Rochambeau,  under  whom  De 
Chastellux  had  served,  was  about  to  sail 
for  France  wth  his  French  allies,  for  the 
war  was  over.  The  Marquis  took  the  usual 
route  from  Hartford  by  way  of  Litchfield, 
down  the  Housatonic  to  Bull's  Bridge  and 
then  along  the  Ten  Mile  River  out  to  the 
tavern. 

There  are  yet  a  few  links  to  bind  the 
present  generation  to  that  remote  and  stir- 
ing  past.  On  the  Sharon  road  to  Cornwall 
Bridge  is  the  site  of  an  old  mill  where 
grain  was  ground  to  feed  Washington's 
army;  the  writer  has  talked  with  living 
men  who  have  the  most  vivid  recollection 
of  Adoniram  Maxim,  a  Revolutionary  sol- 
dier who,  with  Ethan  Allen,  tried  to  cap- 
ture Montreal,  but  was  taken  captive,  sent 
across  the  Atlantic  and  exhibited  in  Eng- 
land in  an  iron  cage.  The  old  man  suf- 
fered much  in  a  prison  ship  and  being 
exhibited  as  a  specimen  of  the  American 
38 


rebels  (he  was  very  homely)  could  never 
hear  an  Englishman  preach,  although  he 
was  a  devout  Methodist.  It  is  a  long  story 
to  tell  how  the  Hessian  troopers  from  Bur- 
Coyne's  surrendered  army,  about  1,500  of 
tin -in.  inarched  through  these  border  towns 
on  their  way  to  Virginia.  The  trunk  and 
stump  of  an  old  elm  against  which  they 
piled  their  saddles  yet  remains  on  Sharon 
Street. 

This  borderland  was  the  meeting  place 
for  different  racial  and  ethnic  stocks.  We 
New  Englanders  have  been  so  accustomed 
to  hearing  the  praises  of  the  Puritans  sung 
that  we  forget  those  other  worthy  colonists 
who  settled  in  The  Oblong,  the  Dutch,  the 
French  Huguenots  and  the  Palatines.  Re- 
cently, in  driving  through  Amenia  Union, 
a  little  hamlet  situated  so  exactly  on  the 
border  that  both  Connecticut  and  New 
York  claim  it,  the  writer  noticed  a  house 
so  distinctly  foreign  in  its  architecture  that 
it  might  have  been  transported  from  some 
dorp  around  old  Heidelberg  and  set  down 
here  in  the  valley  of  the  Webutuck. 

The  Litchfield  Border  gives  one  a  very 
interesting  study  in  land  grants  and  feudal- 
ism. Over  the  line  were  those  extensive 

39 


manors  stretching  back  35  miles  from  the 
Hudson.  A  great  manor  with  seignorial 
rights  and  privileges  like  that  of  the  Liv- 
ingstons at  Clermont  was  the  very  antip- 
odes of  New  England  ideals,  yet  here  on 
the  border  the  town  and  the  manor  met. 
The  Puritan  had  a  system  of  government 
made  to  order.  He  surveyed  a  township 
and  then  set  up  in  it  his  civic  theocracy, 
a  little  narrow,  to  be  sure,  but  perfect  and 
complete.  Over  the  border  things  grew  in 
a  looser  way.  Life  had  a  freer  swing  and 
copied  aristocratic  models. 

Ever  since  Walter  Scott  sang  of  border 
chivalry  there  has  been  a  touch  of  the 
romantic  in  border  lands.  Cooper  puts 
some  of  it  into  old  Fishkill  in  his  story 
of  "  The  Spy,  a  Tale  of  the  Neutral 
Ground."  We  find  it  here  on  the  Litchfield 
Border.  One  step  and  you  are  in  Dutchess 
county  —  a  little  limestone  prism  by  the 
roadside  separates  untitled  New  England 
from  the  estates  of  royalty.  We  are  glad 
the  Revolution  didn't  sweep  away  every 
vestige  of  the  royal  names.  When  the 
principal  street  in  the  average  American 
town  is  Main,  Washington  or  Franklin,  we 
are  glad  that  Williamsburgh,  in  Virginia, 
40 


keeps  yet  its  Duke  of  Gloster  street  and 
for  the  endless  Jefferson  counties  in  the 
United  States,  named  after  the  great  apos- 
tle of  democracy,  we  are  glad  that  one  was 
named  after  the  Duchess  of  York.  We 
are  not  so  rich  in  historic  names  or  senti- 
ments of  the  olden  time  that  we  can  afford 
to  lose  any  of  them.  It  was  such  a  delight 
to  find  that  Count  Zinzendorf's  daughter 
came  to  a  little  lake  on  the  Connecticut 
border  that  we  have  called  her  the  Countess 
of  Gnadensee. 

By  this  time  Harry  had  returned.  His 
shot  at  the  eagle  was  unsuccessful,  but  he 
had  obtained  an  excellent  view  of  The 
Dome  and  Greylock  up  in  Massachusetts. 
The  mountain  air  was  exhilarating  now. 
Throwing  up  his  cap,  the  one  rescued  from 
the  porcupine,  he  shouted, "  Hurrah  for  old 
New  England  and  her  cloud-capped  granite 
hills." 

From  the  summit  of  Poconnuck  the  boys 
observed  that  the  mountain  had  two  eyes, 
a  lake  on  either  side.  There  are  so  many 
lakes  in  this  borderland  that  it  has  been 
called  the  Lake  Country  of  Connecticut. 
Uncle  Dick  told  the  boys  that  English 


coachmen  often  said  these  lakes  reminded 
them  of  their  own  Westmoreland.  One 
thing  Uncle  Dick's  glowing  descriptions  made 
the  boys  decide  to  do,  that  was  to  visit 
Sharon  Street. 

On  their  way  down  Poconnuck  to  the 
camp,  Harry  noticed  a  large  animal  on  the 
dead  limb  of  an  old  chestnut,  asleep.  It 
was  of  a  tawny  color  with  a  face  like  a 
tiger's.  The  boy's  nerves  tingled  with  ex- 
citement as  he  crept  up  and  almost  under 
its  body  fired.  With  a  wild  prolonged 
screech,  like  what  they  had  heard  that  first 
night  in  camp,  the  animal  tumbled  to  the 
ground,  rolled  over  and  over,  clawing  up  a 
cloud  of  dust.  The  boy  rushed  in  and  then 
fired  another  bullet  into  the  brute.  After 
some  fierce  snarls  and  convulsive  struggles 
the  animal  lay  dead.  "  Harry,  it  was  lucky 
you  didn't  corner  that  fellow  in  the  cave," 
said  George.  "  Look  at  his  teeth  and 
claws.  That's  the  fellow  who  was  after  our 
meat  that  first  night  in  the  woods."  It 
was  the  proudest  moment  in  Harry's  life 
when  Uncle  Dick,  to  whom  he  showed  his 
quarry,  came  up.  "I'll  take  him  to  a  tax- 
idermist. He's  as  big  as  a  Canada  lynx," 
said  his  uncle.  The  animal  looked  lean  and 
42 


hungry.  He  had  evidently  traveled  a  long 
way  and  was  tired  out  when  discovered 
asleep  on  the  tree.  That  night  around  the 
campfire  the  talk  was  all  about  wild 
animals,  from  the  savage  brute  the  boys 
had  shot  and  slung  upon  a  pole,  to  lions, 
larger  cats,  an  ex-President  was  shooting  in 
the  jungles  of  Africa. 

John  Gilder,  having  heard  the  reports  of 
Harry's  rifle,  came  over  in  the  evening. 
One  thing  he  did  not  approve  of,  the  big 
cracking  fire  the  boys  had  built.  "  A  bon- 
fire Tiaint  no  campfire,  never.  They  burn 
the  mountain  over  and  is  pesky  danger- 
ous." Here  John  quoted  what  one  of  the 
old  Indians  around  Poconnuck  once  told 
him. 

"  White  man  heap  fool;  make  um  big 
fire  —  can't  git  near;  Injun  make  um  little 
fire  —  git  clo.se.  Uh,  good!" 

If  the  fire  did  not  please  John  the  wild- 
cat excited  him.  The  old  hunter  had  many 
stories  to  tell  as  he  saw  that  tawny  brute 
Harry 's  rifle  had  brought  down  from  the 
old  chestnut.  One  was  how,  Putnam  like, 
he  had  shot  one  in  a  cave  and  dragged  him 
out  wounded  and  snarling. 

The   hunter   had   also   brought   over   some 

43 


wild  honey  from  a  bee-tree  he  had  felled. 
He  showed  how  with  a  box  of  comb 
on  a  swaying  tripod  of  a  sapling  you 
could  attract  the  bees  and  then  line  them 
home. 

It  was  now  late  into  the  night.  Even 
John  Gilder's  stories  and  the  fascination  of 
his  uncouth  dialect  began  to  fail  on  the 
weary  campers.  The  campfire  was  burning 
low  save  where  some  pine  knots  flashed  and 
sputtered.  "Tis  hard  to  trace  all  the  corre- 
lations and  connections  of  our  thought  at 
such  a  time.  Uncle  Dick's  mind  wandered 
away  from  the  honey  of  Poconnuck  to  the 
honey  of  Hymettus,  from  a  campfire  on 
an  Indian  mountain  in  Connecticut,  to 
those  classic  ones,  lighting  up  old  legends 
and  traditions.  Poconnuck  and  Pine  Cob- 
ble touched  Pelion  and  Ossa.  In  those 
flashes,  piercing  the  gloom  of  the  dim  old 
forest,  stood  revealed  the  camps  and  hoary 
landscapes  of  the  past;  the  bivouacs  of 
Napoleon,  English  yeomen  and  French 
knights  at  Cressy,  William's  conquering  and 
victorious  Normans,  the  camps  of  Crusad- 
ers and  Saracens,  Roman  legions  stationed 
at  the  boundaries  of  the  empire,  the  pha- 
lanx of  Alexander  marching  to  a  world's 

44 


conquest,  back,  back  into  the  past  until 
history  shades  into  legend  and  you  stand 
upon  the  plains  of  Troy. 

"  George,"  he  said,  "  what  Greek  did  you 
read  last  year  in  the  university  curricu- 
lum? "  "The  eighth  book  of  the  Iliad,"  re- 
plied his  nephew.  Here  Uncle  Dick  pitched 
a  last  log  into  the  blaze  and  then  quoted 
the  Homeric  hexameters : 

"  So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 

Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn." 

"  Boys,  the  camp  of  Achilles  and  the 
camp  of  Poconnuck  must  now  get  some 
sleep." 

The  next  day  the  boys  broke  camp  and 
said  good-by  to  Poconnuck,  though  not  until 
they  had  exacted  a  promise  that  their  uncle 
would  come  to  Poconnuck  the  follow- 
ing year  bringing  bacon  and  blankets. 
After  a  few  days  at  Troutbeck,  they  started 
for  home  on  their  bicycles.  Pedaling 
through  Sharon  Street,  they  halted  at  the 
clock-tower  to  get  the  Washington  time  and 
also  to  read  the  verses  graven  upon  its 

45 


back.  There  were  some  other  verses  Uncle 
Dick  had  given  as  a  souvenir  of  their  visit, 
which  George  read  aloud: 

Lone  tower  upon  the  border, 

Thou  art  the  utmost  bound 

To  mark  New  England's  ancient  strength 

And  send  her  challenge  down; 

Thou  standest  where  Taconic  hills 

Melt  in  a  dreamy  haze. 

Southward  the  perfect  valley  runs, 

The  valley  of  our  praise. 

The  fisher  in  his  little  boat 

Out  on  the  Lake  of  Grace 

Doth  listen  when  thy  mellow  tones 

Steal  round  PoconnucJc's  base; 

And  teamsters  with  their  heavy  load 

Pause  in  the  dust  and  heat, 

The  rumbling  wheels  are  stilled  to  hear 

The  Angelus  of  the  Street. 

A  second  halt  was  made  at  Salisbury  to 
hear  the  chimes  in  the  Norman  tower  and 
to  see  a  piece  of  Salisbury  Cathedral 
which  had  been  donated  to  the  new  library. 
Here  Wachocastinook  came  rushing  down 
from  his  mountain  lakes.  Every  year  in 
laurel  time  Uncle  Dick  went  up  there  for 
the  view.  No  town  in  Connecticut,  he  said, 
had  such  a  wealth  of  natural  scenery  as 
Salisbury.  No  wrinkled  sea  crawled  be- 


neath  you  but  around  was  a  wilderness  of 
lakes  and  mountains.  He  had  given  George 
some  verses  originally  left  in  a  copper 
cylinder  in  a  cairn  of  stones  up  on  Bald 
Peak. 

My  stops  Jed  down  a  mountain  brook, 

I   listened  to  its  roar  at  times, 

The   falling  stream,    Wachoca&tinook ; 

Another  voice,  the  Salisbury  chimes 

Canx-  up  tin-  road. 

'  Twaa    England   spake   unto  me   then, 

Old  Sarum  lent  her  minster  choir 

And  through  the  laurel  bordered  glen 

The  stream's  full  voice  was  praise  and  prayer. 

The  falling  stream  went  singing  on, 

It  wound  below  St.  Austin's  height; 

I  caught  it  -  music  in  a  psalm 

Sung  to  an  old  Gregorian  chant, 

And  then  it  changed  to  sing  again 

That  earlier  freedom  which  it  knew 

The  beauty  of  the  Riga  tarns, 

Those  lonely  heights  where  eagles  mew. 

Stream  of  the  mountain  and  the  sky 

Thou  hast  two  moods  for  which  I  faint  — 

An  Indian  freedom  of  the  wild, 

The  chaste  obedience  of  the  saint. 

Taking  the  under-mountain  road  up  into 
Berkshire,  the  boys  pedaled  to  Stockbridge, 
where  they  dined  at  the  Red  Lion.  A 
stone  monument  on  the  street  there,  called 
attention  to  some  early  labors  to  Christian- 
ize the  Indians.  These  were  the  same  tribe 
the  boys  had  found  traces  of  at  Poconnuck, 

47 


but  in  one  case  saintly  Moravians,  and  in 
the  other  Jonathan  Edwards,  had  been  the 
preacher. 

"  Harry,"  said  his  brother,  as  they 
sipped  their  after-dinner  coffee  at  the  Red 
Lion,  "  what  do  you  think  was  the  best 
thing  at  our  camp  on  Poconnuck?"  "  Find- 
ing those  relics  and  shooting  that  wildcat," 
Harry  replied  instantly.  "  Don't  you  agree 
with  me?  "  A  far  away,  dreamy  look 
came  into  George's  eyes  as  he  slowly 
answered,  "  No,  not  at  all,  the  best  thing 
wasn't  the  mountain,  but  the  lake.  Its 
name  haunts  me  continually.  Harry,  I 
have  fallen  in  love."  "You  have!  who  is 
the  lady,  pray  tell?  "  "  Zinzendorf 's  daugh- 
ter, Benigna,  the  Countess  of  Gnadensee. 
She  is  the  Lady  of  the  Lake." 


000  023  061 


